


Family Wolf-union

by kabrox18



Category: Doom (Video Games), Wolfenstein (Video Games)
Genre: Anya Worries A Ton, Caroline Takes No Shit, Gen, it's mostly abt those 2 bonding lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-24 16:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17707466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kabrox18/pseuds/kabrox18
Summary: What do you get when you drop an infamous killer in Nazi-infested Europe?A lot of dead Nazis, that's what.self-indulgent wolf/doom crossover with Family Feels TM





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> featuring the Eternal absolute unit of a guy!

The first thing that meets him upon exiting the tether warp is a scream. He’s sure it isn’t his own, but he is feeling nauseous, and the shrill noise isn’t helping, so he struggles to his feet and looks around, planning to pulverize the source. He’s on a street, it’s dim, and there’s a hefty cloud of mist to his right from a waterfall or something.

 

There’s shooting, and he almost registers the bullets flying toward him in panicked sprays. It takes him a second to get to the source, another to swat the rifle aside, and a third to crush the skull of the soldier who’d been wielding it. Another hollers something, it sounds like a slurred ‘ _ shit! _ ’ and he’s moving again. His fist finds purchase in this one’s head too, throwing it to one side with a wet  _ crunch. _

 

More gunfire peppers him and he calls forth his rocket launcher, mounting it on one shoulder and letting the little squares close on the three targets before he fires, a black car going up in a lovely fireball. He watches it boil with some measure of satisfaction, and turns only to find  _ more.  _ Great. He’s pissed off the locals.

 

Frankly, they pissed him off too.

 

The gauss cannon more than handles the machines they throw at him, and a well-placed grenade turns half their infantry to paste. A car rolls by, heading toward the mist. It’d make for a brief respite, so he drops more rockets on these assholes before vanishing into it. They holler and come after him, but he’s already gone, leaping off the bridge. He notes that there’s someone else here, and checks behind himself before following.

 

—

 

Swearing.

 

That’s what meets him, this time, when he heaves his bulk up the ladder, flopping to his knees awkwardly. His knees slick across the worn smooth steel, and he staggers up, irritated quite considerably over his own lack of grace in this environment. He shakes his hands out, flicking water all over, and swipes his visor as clean as he can.

 

He gets whacked over the head with a line of metal pipe—probably part of the broken railing there. It does nothing to him; head impacts don’t even faze the Praetor suit, and he’s gotten used to the shock anyway. Another solid  _ clunk _ over the head annoys him though, and he swipes the pipe, shooting a lethal glare over at the asshole who was doing it.

 

“Bloody hell. Uh. Blazko, I recommend you take over,” the guy says, in a thick scotsman’s accent.

 

“You kiddin’? That thing took on a hundred Nazis and squashed ‘em like bugs. No way in hell—WOAH! Easy big guy!” He’s aggressively close to this  _ Blazko, _ eyeballing him all up and down and trying to figure out why he’s so damn  _ familiar. _ He can’t figure it out and backs up, thumping his own helmet in agitation. It was right  _ there,  _ who he was, dammit!

 

“Er, Blazkowicz? What’s he doing?”

 

_ AHA! THAT NAME! _ Immediately, he bundled the soldier into a bear hug, wheezing out a soundless laugh. He knew this guy! Of course he did!

 

“Ugh-fuck, put me  _ down! _ ” BJ squirms, struggling in his arms. He obligingly drops him to his feet, but is really too excited to stop and think, instead shoving in like a bull in a china shop, snatching up a pen and paper and scrawling something quick. He flips the pad over, holding it up.

 

“...Great great great grandson, huh? I’ll be damned, Blaz. He’s from the future.”

 

“That he is… and you’re related to me?” BJ looks up at the absolute  _ hulk  _ in weird green armor, takes in the spikes and studs and armaments. An earnest, enthusiastic nod is his response, and he can’t help but crack a smile. This boy grew up to be one hell of a killing machine, and his chest feels tight with pure pride. “My own grandkids, keeping the family tradition of killin’ Nazis alive. Damn. I couldn’t be happier. I will ask for a little proof, though, for… safety’s sake.”

 

And just like that, the helmet is gone. He can see the age worn into that face, the awkwardness of a haphazard haircut, but the angles, the jawline, are so invariably his. He grins, no,  _ beams _ at his grandson, and flings his arms open for a proper hug. They crash together and he coughs a laugh, wrapping his arms as much as he can fit around those mammoth shoulders.

 

“Well ain’t this the warmest family reunion you ever saw.” Anya just laughs at the comment, watching them pull apart gradually.

 

“It’s good to have you with us,” she says, softly, and takes one oversized hand in both of hers, patting the metal-knuckled mitt and smiling up at him. He smiles back, only halfway, and crooked—like he’s almost forgotten how to smile. She feels her own smile grow sad, but it’s interrupted when there’s a mechanical whine and a muttered curse.

 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Caroline sighs, eyeballing both BJ and his grandson with disbelief.

 

This was a hell of a meeting, alright.


	2. Chapter 2

“We’re going to drop you into enemy turf. Directly in the center of a major population center. Your job is to wipe them out, and free any prisoners. Be careful about defectors—not all of them truly want to help us,” Caroline says. She glances at the hulk of a person behind her, and tries to suppress a smile. This was the first leg up they’d had in a long time. “Alright. Drop to the left. We’ll be shuttling people and supplies in once you’re done cleaning out the scum.” He looks to her only a moment before pushing off the side, landing neatly. He doesn’t even wait for the craft to fly off again before he’s moving, head on a swivel.

 

This place was supposed to be  _ crawling— _ where were they? He jerks a little at the distant wail of sirens, and someone saying something in smooth, artificial sounding German over speakers. He grunts a little in amusement, and moves toward the sound. Someone shouts something and he jerks back in time to dodge a burst of suppressing fire. He only makes line-of-sight for a second, targeting the guy and letting the grenade launcher handle the rest. A muffled  _ boompf _ and dust drizzling down inside the building is all the confirmation he needs, and he’s off again. Someone gets in his way, looking determined. Or, looking determined until they’re staring down the twin barrels of his shotgun, and then they don’t look like anything but red on the street. He glances up and sees another, flicking it up and firing the hook. Bricks shatter at the sheer punch of the weapon, digging well through the Nazi’s torso and dragging him down, screaming, in a broad arc.  _ Splat. _ He grins, allows the hook to pull back, and reloads. This was easy.

 

Resistance gets heavier, but still holds no more stopping power to him than a wet paper bag. Anya and Caroline are double-teaming now, updating him on emplacements and deployments when they’re able. Klaus grumps from the background every so often, correcting them on what he knows. Even BJ chimes in occasionally with a “good work!” or “excellent kill!” that’s a bit laden with static.

 

A panzerhund’s jaws clash shut inches from him, and he scrambles back, leaping up onto a second-story ledge and dragging himself up to get the higher ground. It goes to give chase, but he drops a grenade on it and a couple rockets. Doesn’t stop it, but it gives him time to pull out the gauss cannon, turn, and ready the shot. It clunks up a back way, just where he suspected it would, and leaps at him only to be blown through by the charged shot. Another is audible in its approach, and he turns quickly, blasting that too and leaving a small shallow in the pavement. He hops down, stashing the cannon, and pulls out his sidearm again.

 

Two voices holler at him, and he decides the gun is pointless. Fire takes care of both of them, but he doesn’t waste time scavenging. His rocket launcher puts an end to some armored car, and then more clunking. Ugh, stupid Nazis and their heavy tech. There’s rustling and arguing over comm for a moment, static fuzzing most of it out before it clears.

 

“Listen to me,” Klaus orders. “Those noises are Supersoldaten. They have some exposed flesh,  _ target it! _ Heavy arms will do nothing to their armor but ricochet off.” He takes the information, chewing on it while his body continues killing. Someone lobs a grenade at him, but a well-aimed launch of his grappling hook allows him to sling it right back. A fluid turn while the chain retracts, and he fires point-blank into a small group, turning most of them into red vapor.

 

More shouting pulls his attention and he skids out of the way of heavy projectiles. A quick swap to the HAR, and he sprays in a wide, lethal arc. Over half the infantry in his line of sight drop from that alone; the Supersoldaten—three in total—simply shrug off the high-caliber rounds.

 

_ Alright, _ he thinks.  _ Let’s dance. _

 

More suppressive fire forces him to move, so he does. Quickly. He covers ground between them, closing the gap enough that he can fire the HAR into one of them. This time the ammo finds purchase, chewing into an exposed belly and arms. The metal monster howls in agony, charging toward him quite like a freight train. He ducks and twists away, landing a point-blank blast from his shotgun. It staggers, groans in machine duress, and collapses. He feels some modicum of pride, but still moves to handle the others.

 

“Did… did you just kill one?!” Klaus almost shrieks. He can hear more rustling. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU FEED YOUR GRANDKIDS?!” He can dimly hear BJ laugh, and Anya scolding him for yelling so loudly. A grin threatens to crack his face, but it’s halted by a deadly swing of one of those oversized arms bearing down on him. He jukes it last second, firing blind at the shadowed shape and hoping hits land where they belong.

 

The thing screams, so some must’ve.

 

He ducks another wide swing and lunges in, a violent uppercut sending the monster teetering back dangerously. He hisses in a breath and shakes his hand out, using the precious opportunity to put a little distance between himself and the Supersoldaten. His knuckles still burn, and one of his fingers feels a little numb. He doesn’t have time to spare a look at it though, and just powers through the feeling, putting a rocket into the still-staggered beast. It goes up in a shower of sparks and blood, and the last remaining one howls in defiant rage. The gauss cannon silences it, leaving nothing but a smoking hole where it’s exposed belly used to be. 

 

Now his hand  _ really _ hurts, and he internally curses up a storm, damning everything from the Nazis to the demons that took his voice. He shakes it out again, and takes a look. One of his fingers is offset just slightly, so he grits his teeth and  _ yanks _ it, snapping it back into place. Pain blooms through his hand and rockets up his arm, and he stomps around a bit, hating the sharp agony.

 

“You have around twenty minutes until heavy reinforcements arrive. You must get those prisoners now or never!” Caroline says urgently in his ear, even as he huffs and puffs and wiggles his hand through the still-white hot pain. No time for distractions, then. He takes off, pushing the pain away and breaking into the building. The prisoners are blindfolded with what looks like wrought-iron bands, cuffed and held kneeling. The chains yield to his arm blade though, and he ensures they all are alright before leading the charge back out, handing one his pistol and another his plain shotgun.

 

“Here!” A familiar voice calls once they’re outside, and he points.  _ There! The escape! _ They all rush over, piling into the chopper. “There’s a second one coming for you. It’s Anya and William,” Caroline reassures, but more Nazis pour in through gaps in buildings and across the road.

 

“Damn,” BJ mumbles over comm, “they regrouped faster than expected. You’re gunna have to clear em out.”

 

Fair enough, one part of him says, but the angry throbbing in his hand says otherwise. It feels like he broke something, but everything moves fine, so it couldn’t have been  _ that. _

_ Dislocation,  _ he repeats to himself.  _ You’ll live. _ It still hurts like Hell, but he can get through it. He’s glad these stupid assholes came when they did—any sooner and he might be missing an invaluable part of his arsenal.

 

He can sympathize with the guy who’d been glued to his shotgun, but is also very glad he had the sense to shove it back at him before running to evacuate. The explosive shot blows out a store’s windows, Nazis inside screaming at the shower of glass and shrapnel. A rocket tips the armored car on its side. Two gauss shots handle whole  _ groups _ of the bastards, and he blows the torso off another with the super shotgun, reloading without thinking and turning to hightail it toward the descending copter. He waves furiously for them to back off, return to operational height, and Anya mutters a swear in what sounds like Polish.

 

“We aren’t leaving you here,” she says, sharply, but lifts up a bit. BJ grunts, leans out, and then nods.

 

“He’s gunna hook into our flank. I’ll help him in.”

 

“Are you  _ sure? _ ” She demands, but the chopper kicks hard, a weighty  _ whunk _ the only signal they’d been hit. Clicking reverberates through the whole craft, and soon one huge hand grabs the lip of the bay, an arm swinging up.

 

“Son, that was dumb as hell. But crafty.” He glances up, and then adds another “but completely insane” at a dirty look from Anya. He moves the oversized weapon aside, grabbing the hand and yanking him up, dragging him in. “Now go! He’s in!” They jolt, hauling ass away from the scene of the crime.


	3. Chapter 3

Anya swears at him more in Polish.

 

He sighs, heavily, and just lets his eyes close, ignoring the  _ very _ stern talking-to he was receiving.

 

“Do you know how  _ risky  _ that was?!” She hisses at him. He just lets her yell more. Or whisper-yell. Whatever it was she was doing right now. Caroline has his injured hand in her lap, weaving bandages through his fingers and around his knobby knuckles.

 

“You tore your hand up, punching that Supersoldaten,” she says,  _ far _ more conversationally. His lips twitch in an aborted smirk, and she chuckles, moving his arm up to rest on the table with an ice pack. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you messed something up in your forearm. But that all looks fine. I recommend not doing that anymore,” she says, flatly, and then wheels off to do whatever it was she did normally. Hacking, techwork, comms; from what he could tell, anyway.

 

“I’m not done with you yet, mister,” Anya sniffs, and jabs a finger into the heavy pile of his chest. “That was  _ insane!  _ Downright idiotic! You could’ve been killed! And then what?! No more Blazkowiczes!” She slaps a hand on his bicep, now, caught up in her scolding.

 

“Give the kid a break, Anya,” BJ sighs, swinging his way into a seat. She huffs and gestures frustratedly at him, before storming off. He cracks one eye to look over to his grandfather, and allows himself a full-on grin. “For the record, she’s right.” He mimes an annoyed groan, rolling his eyes. “I know, I know. But don’t be pullin’ that shit anymore. Might not always work.” He sits forward, giving an obliging—if a little annoyed—nod. He watches those stark blue-grey eyes trail down to his puffy, reddened hand. “Regrettin’ decking that Supersoldaten, huh? Klaus was still hollering about you killing them when Anya, Caroline, and I left. I think he’s scared of you, now.” He grins again, crabby mood lifted by the idea of someone like Klaus being afraid of him.

 

“I’m not  _ afraid, _ Johnny Cowboy,” Klaus retorts, apparently having caught part of the conversation. “I just have a healthy respect for  _ anything _ that can pull what he did. Three, he punched one, and still beat them! Unbelievable.” He threw his hands up, Max Hass mirroring the motion nearby.

 

He watches, silently, feeling something like gentle amusement warming in his chest. He liked Max. He thought Klaus was alright too, even  _ with _ his weird nicknames. BJ and Anya were both right, but he’d never admit it. The warmth suddenly was overturned by a pang of  _ loneliness. _ This is what he was  _ missing. _ There was no sense of belonging or family in the bowels of Hell. He felt guilty, and picked up the ice pack, slinking off to sit alone for a while and brood. 

 

BJ didn’t even try stopping him, just watched him go.

 

—

 

_ I’m getting attached, _ he realizes, staring up at the stained ceiling.  _ These people haven’t even had me around a week and I’m already latching on. _ The  _ Hellwalker _ part of him reacts in disgust. The grumpy UAC Marine part feels guilty. But everything else just feels… longing. He  _ longs _ to feel like a part of a family, even a mishmashed one like this. He likes everyone here. He likes being with Anya, and BJ, and Caroline… and Klaus, and Max, and Fergus, and even the others he hasn’t properly been introduced to.

 

He sets the half-unfrozen ice pack on the nightstand and examines his hand, wrapped neat and tight by Caroline’s deceptively steady hands. The swelling across his knuckles has gone down, and it doesn’t hurt all the way up his arm when he wiggles his fingers. Progress, already; probably thanks to that shit the Angels did to him.

 

Another reason he didn’t fit.

 

He rolled onto his side, sighing explosively. Stupid Hayden. Stupid UAC. Stupid demons, stupid angels, stupid-stupid-stupid. He tugs the pillow a bit, glaring at the peeling wallpaper sullenly. None of it was fair. He wanted to be here, with his family—blood and otherwise—but he was a square peg, trying to take up a round hole. And it didn’t work. None of it  _ worked. _ He sighs, again, and sits up, scrubbing his face with a palm and turning to slide out of bed.

 

He shoves through the door, ignoring the way it creaks in protest at how he jams his too-large frame past it.

 

_ Square peg, _ he thinks again, grimly, and heads to the compact kitchen. The fridge is old and rattles a little when he pulls it open, grabbing milk and shutting it with a  _ thump. _

 

“Oy, whozzat?” An accented voice slurs. The light clicks on and buzzes irritably. Fergus squints at him; he squints even more when he takes a huge swig of milk. “What’re you doin’ up, laddie?” He asks, keeping his voice low. He just shrugs, leaving his body language as amorphous as possible. “Mm,” he hums, as if he understands. “Wanna sit?” He really likes Fergus, he decides—the way he doesn’t pry too hard, the way he just lets him be. He nods, bringing the milk with him and sitting at the table, the dim, dirty light throwing the room into muzzy contrast.

 

“Cards?” Fergus offers, already holding the deck. He drinks again, setting the bottle aside and giving a lazy shrug. “Aye. Know the feelin’. You’d rather that be liquor, hmm?” He points to the milk, loosely. He watches the gesture, contemplating the words, and looks down to the innocuous milk bottle, nodding the tiniest bit. He didn’t like the storm brewing in his head, nor did he like the blockage keeping it all in. Little hard to talk your emotions out when you couldn’t  _ talk. _ “No ya don’t,” Fergus says, simply, and pats his shoulder. “You’d be a blackout mess if it was. I know that look on yer face.” He furrows his brow in lieu of a frown, and looks to him with just his eyes.

 

“Look.” Fergus turns, facing him more. “I’ve seen plenty’a men with that look. Blazko included. You don’t need  _ any _ liquor in this state. You keep drinkin’ that milk. It’s better for ya. If you want to talk it out, the notebook you used is over there.” He points, and then pauses. “I think the pen’s still beside it. I won’t question why you don’t talk. Just tell me when you wanna write me somethin’.”

 

Almost immediately, he gets up for it, picking it and the pen up before returning to the folding chair. He plops the pad down and goes to write, but freezes. How would he even  _ phrase _ this? It sounded like a bunch of crabby mumbo-jumbo, and he definitely couldn’t translate it into paper.  _ Start with the obvious,  _ he realized, and started writing. Fergus waits patiently, shuffling the deck of cards and humming something to himself. He takes his time, writing everything he could make sense of down, before setting the pen down and pushing the paper over. He watches Fergus’s eyes dart over it silently, the cards—and his hands—going still.

 

“Mm.” He looks up. “I see what you mean. You  _ are _ in a different league. One we ain’t gunna live to see. But your presence is one we enjoy, and not just when it comes time to knock down Nazi doors.” He cracks a smile, a real one. “You ain’t a square peg. There’s no issue in gettin’ attached. Makes the memories you made with us all the fonder, right? You’ll miss us, but it’ll be okay.” He slaps a bicep and laughs softly. “Shit, Blazko won’t shut up about you! We love havin’ ya round. That ain’t gunna change. You’re part of the family now, whether you like it or not.” 

 

He can’t help but smile, genuinely, feeling his chest go all squeezy-tight at Fergus’s words. It’s like all his concerns and frustrations just…  _ evaporated. _

  
Oh, he could  _ definitely _ get used to this.


End file.
